July 28th, 2015
Just write, Voltiel. Just write.
I convinced myself a long time ago that words held some sort of power. That if I used them properly, I could achieve things that actions alone could never accomplish. I’m still not sure if that’s true. It either advances my intentions, or makes things harder than they’re supposed to be. I talk myself into corners instead of backing into them with my body, physically. The most painful realization I’ve ever had is that I’ve never even had to say anything with my own voice. That people have the wrong impression of me after reading what I’ve posted online—or maybe it’s the right impression. They’re the things I want them to know. I willingly display the worst parts of me to feed into their expectations. It works. I’m hated. More importantly, I am feared.
It’s hard for me to write anything when I know no one is going to read it. I’m writing for me. So that means if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead right now. That, or you’re dead. Someone is going to end up dead. That’s how life works. I know what you’re probably thinking, ‘how melodramatic’. And you’re right. You’re going to be right about a lot of things. People like to be right, don’t they? So don’t complain. Keep reading. You’ll see.
Let’s start from the top. This is a diary. I’ve had other diaries before. Actually, several diaries that I’ve hidden or burned (burned drunk, like a fucking idiot). But they nauseate me. A majority of my writing in the past had been drug influenced. It’s basically a bunch of psychobabble. Don’t try to find them. You won’t. I made sure of it. I’m counting on the fact that this one won’t be found either but if it is, congratulations. Look at all this psychotic fucking bullshit. Wow. Amazing. Great. Incredible. Fantastic.
I’m Voltiel. If you don’t know me, I’m one of the crazies. Maybe the most controlled one. I don’t walk through the graveyard mumbling riddles and rhymes (not SOBER, anyway) and I don’t just nonchalantly take a knife to someone’s throat and make bacon out of their flesh. But I have killed and I’ll probably kill again. I probably have, by the time I run out of paper here. I’m not sorry. The other two, I’m sorry for. Yes. This is where I’m going to come from now on to feel sorry for myself. Prepared? Neither am I. How am I taking this seriously? I’m not. I’m writing to myself. Apologizing to myself. This is all pointless.
They (the god damn evil nazi doctors in Dead End) diagnosed me with schizophrenia. Which means I hear and see shit that isn’t there from time to time (IN A NUTSHELL, BUT A LOT MORE IS WRONG WITH ME. I HAVE ALL THE DISORDERS. JFC). Mostly when I’m not taking my medication, or on a really shitty day. I have triggers and I’d talk about them, but I’m not in the mood. I don’t remember a lot of the people I see anymore. There’s a girl that hangs out in my doorway from time to time and she’s all broken like she jumped off a bridge of some shit. Just attaches herself to the frame of the door. No idea who she is but she’s the reason I don’t leave my house some days. Sometimes it’s just not worth it.
I don’t know what to say about myself. That’s mostly it. I could talk about how I hate being Japanese and yet, get fucking pissed at people that get the culture all wrong or glorify it LIKE IT’S SOMETHING TO FUCKING WORSHIP. Or I could talk about my hatred for tapioca pudding. And turtles (I can’t remember why I don’t like them anymore, it’s fucking sad. I just forgot one day) … they mean SOMETHING—I’m not sure what most of my drug induced symbolism was about. But I went on and on for a long time. When I’m triggered into my “episodes” I forget a lot of what’s happened. They can carry on for days and when they’re over, I lose chunks of my memory. Usually shit that I should be forgetting anyway, so I’m fine with it.
I have two daughters that I really don’t see anymore, and I’d like to blame my mental disorder but that’s really not what ruined it for me. It was me that ruined it. But see—the fathers of both these children? They’re NOT FIT to be FATHERS. One is a Satanist. Literally a fucking Satanist. And he blames his Satanism on me (I’ll get to talking about that too). And the other is a cousin to the Satanist’s girlfriend. He’s a drug addict. Used to be a cop. And our baby is, yes, a rape baby. Though, that was a big misunderstanding. And I’m NOT holding the kid over his head like some big fucking black cloud of poison. Kiara is the Satanist’s kid. Rosen is my rape baby. Ain’t that cute? I actually hate the name Rosen. Can’t remember why I named her that. I think I was drunk when I had her. Fucking drunk. Drunk drunk drunk drunk drunk. They won’t let me see them because I apparently kept both kids from them … I wonder why.
I killed the daughter of the Satanist’s girlfriend and some big fucking marshmallow motherfucker named Ellis. That’s been a big problem for me. The only reason—THE O N L Y reason I’m not in prison? The old captain of the HPD has been helping me out for a long time. I don’t even know if he’s alive now or where the fuck he’s gone, but I haven’t heard from him. He used to protect my kids. Make sure they weren’t taken away from me. A good move on his part after he destroyed my shitty fucking life back when I was eighteen. Did all that really happen ten years ago? Guess so.
Killing her got me involved with Zero. I want to talk about him really bad. Really, really bad. But even writing about him privately feels like some sort of … what do I even call it? It’s not right. I have nothing negative to say about him, really. But I don’t feel like myself around him. I turn into a completely different person. And I feel like if I’m sad or miserable around him, he’ll just drop me. So I’m pretty much living a lie under his collar. Not a lie, but I’m not me. He’s worth it. He’s helping me and covering up my anger and hurt is worth it. So I guess I’m putting it here. Sorry, Zero. Trouble is still going to find me. And I’m still going to be sad from time to time. You just won’t have to see it. I thought I could trust his brother, too. But it seems like every tiny thing I do is relayed back to Zero. So I can’t be open with him.
I can’t be open with any of them, if I'm honest. I'm being honest.
Can I even be open with myself? What am I even doing anymore?
I found a dead body in the freezer of my shop. I’m the butcher. The Hathian butcher. Ain’t that fitting? Not really. I don’t butcher people. I’m a fucking vegan for fucks sake. Meat makes me sick. It always has. I don’t know how to deal with the corpse. Just chained it up in the back. It’s not going anywhere (hopefully). I’m getting a little off track here. But my mind is full of fuck and I don’t TALK outside of words. Text. Pen and paper. Twitter. Fuck my life.
I’ll write more later.
Everything is terrible.
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